


The Beat My Heart Plays

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 15:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: Aramis spends the years at the monastery telling them stories about the musketeers, about Porthos. (Coda fic for 3x01)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a prompt on tumblr! Basically what it says in the summary.

**i.**  
The first time Aramis tells them a story about the musketeers, the words tumble out of him before he can think better of it. Luc has just banged his elbow against a pile of pots on the shelves and they’ve gone toppling over, loud and jarring, causing poor Adele to startle and some of the younger children to giggle. 

“It’s alright,” he says as Luc blushes scarlet. “Even Musketeers are clumsy sometimes, you know.” 

Luc looked disbelieving, ears bright red. 

Marie asks, “Who?” 

And that’s when it starts.

 

**ii.**  
It is painful, at first, every time he speaks of them. It squeezes hard in his chest, but he pushes through it each time, telling himself, again and again, that eventually it’ll be easier. Eventually it will not hurt like this. He has the rest of his life to tell these stories, to let them just be stories.

To the children, they _are_ just stories. They will never know these men, and so Aramis embellishes. Athos becomes less acidic, more gentle; d’Artagnan becomes ever-present, less snarky but more daring, if possible; and Porthos—

It is impossible to make Porthos larger than life when he already is, impossible to convey the boom of his laugh, the curve of his smile, the gentleness of his hands. But he tells the stories of Porthos most of all, his most varied, most child-appropriate stories and adventures. Thinks, quietly, that Porthos would appreciate the way the children light up around his stories. Aramis watches the way Luc tilts his head thoughtfully at the stories, the way Marie’s eyes sparkle. Even quiet, serious Adele listens to his stories of the three musketeers, and even blushes a few times at the more romantic stories. 

 

**iii.**   
“And then Porthos shot the melon clear off his friend’s head and—”

 

**iv.**   
Luc constructs rudimentary armor from old tin, swords from sticks. He and Charles scamper around the yard, fighting one another. 

“En guarde!” Luc calls, cheerful and far too young to truly want to be a solider – Aramis hopes, Aramis prays –

“No fair!” Marie shouts, grabbing onto Luc’s elbow. “I want to be Porthos! Let me be Porthos!”

 

**v.**   
Aramis is in the middle of a story, a tradition now with the children, who are demanding and commanding in their desire for stories. Aramis is reaching the pinnacle, the highlight, the climax of the story—

“And then—” Aramis begins and abruptly cuts himself off, falling quiet just as suddenly. Wide eyes stare at him expectantly. They think it’s Aramis’ dramatics, they think he’s building suspense. But—

And then Aramis shot down the enemy from his spot up in the tree. That’s how the story goes. 

Aramis heaves in one breath. 

“… And then d’Artagnan swept down from the trees with a mighty cry and covered Porthos’ back for him as they made their way through the forest,” Aramis finishes, smiling sweetly at the children’s round faces open with shock. 

Aramis breathes out. 

 

**vi.**   
Some commotion from the tradesmen and the brothers disrupts Aramis’ next story and the children swivel their heads, searching out the reason. 

“There’s less here than last week,” Brother Anthony is saying to an apologetic tradesman.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he answers, paying no mind to the way the children crowd around curiously, Aramis trailing behind them. “The King’s requested more supplies be directed towards the front. It’s moving closer.” 

Aramis’ stomach flips up, his heart a heavy thud. He steps forward. “Closer?” 

The tradesman tips his head back with a small sigh. “Yeah. Heading south. They’re a few days’ ride from here. The Spanish are taking more ground.” 

The children murmur in front of him and Aramis’ stomach drops down. 

“Are the musketeers still fighting?” little Marie asks, eyes bright. 

“Musketeers, eh?” the man asks, kneeling down in front of Marie. “You know about them, little miss?” 

“Mm! Aramis tells us stories sometimes,” Marie bubbles, forgetting her shyness in favor of singing Aramis’ praises. Aramis would feel pleased with this if he wasn’t already worried. The Musketeers’ regiment coming closer here – they’d be closer to Douai than they’ve been in years. They’d be—

“Yes,” Aramis agrees. “Do you have news? Their captain, those close to him – are they faring well?” 

“You know the musketeers, Brother?” the tradesman asks politely. 

Brother Anthony is giving him an indulgent look. Before Aramis can fumble – lying is, after all, a sin – Brother Anthony gently says, “We’ve heard many stories of the King’s Musketeers over the years.”

 

**vii.**   
Porthos doesn’t look exactly as Aramis remembers him – he seems taller, his shoulders more hunched, his expression less gentle. 

But still Porthos. Beautiful, breathtaking Porthos. 

The children whisper behind him, staring at these musketeers before them. Aramis nearly feels excited purely for Marie’s sake. 

 

**viii.**   
“Is it true you fought someone with just a fork?” Luc asks Porthos.

Porthos gives him a slowly blank look for a moment before he chuffs out a soft laugh. “Few times, actually.” 

Adele makes a soft sound of surprise behind Aramis and when Aramis glances at her, she’s focusing on doing up Marie’s bonnet, but her cheeks are pink. 

Porthos glances at Aramis when he asks Luc, “How’d you learn about that, anyway?” 

 

**ix.**   
“… Is it true you fought someone with just a bandana and chair once?” Adele asks, quiet, when Porthos catches her looking at him. 

Porthos looks vaguely embarrassed when he laughs. “A lot of these stories are exaggerated. Pretty sure the chair was broken so it was – Well anyway. I guess… yeah.” 

Aramis hums to himself as he helps Hubert into his boots. He feels Porthos glancing at him throughout the afternoon. 

 

**x.**   
Marie squeezes Porthos into a hug one last time before running to Aramis and hugging him, too. The children take turns clinging to Aramis multiple times, wishing him luck and to have fun. It’s endearing and Aramis’ heart squeezes with the thought of leaving them, of leaving the monastery. 

Still, the ride out of the forest and back towards Paris feels like the quiet kind of inevitability, surety that he’s needed. 

Porthos guides his horse to ride beside him, watching him carefully. Aramis smiles at him. 

“So… which was your favorite story?” Porthos asks. 

Aramis smiles at him sweetly. “My dear Porthos,” he says, “my favorite stories of you are ones I can’t very well tell children.” 

Porthos’ lip threatens a smile, although it doesn’t quite bloom. Aramis has found that, really, Porthos does not smile as easily as he did a few years ago. He’s ready to uncover what’s changed and what’s stayed the same, though. The man before him is still Porthos. He has held Porthos too close in his heart to forget anything about him. 

He considers Porthos question and says, “All of them.”


End file.
